


Ad Astra Per Aspera

by Tigresse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Drama, Lots of Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Out of Character, Romance, Sibling Bonding, Slow Burn, Smut, Some Humor, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-10-21 05:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigresse/pseuds/Tigresse
Summary: Sherlock returns to London after a two year hiatus to find someone waiting for him.





	1. I miss you

_1 year after Barts Rooftop Incident._

 

“Mr. Moriarty?”

 

“Yes?”

 

The nurse looked rather sad. Usually she was cheerful and jovial whenever she came to see him. Her expression gave away her message before she uttered a single word. Jim Moriarty turned his chair and faced the woman, someone who had spent a whole year tending to him and helping him through difficult times, hoping she would not break down at least. He had changed since his ‘accident’ but not to the extent where he didn’t find ordinary people and their mundane expressions of emotions boring and….. _disgusting even_. “He is here,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

 

“He comes here every day.”

 

“No, this time he wants you to……”

 

“Lisa, Lisa, please, speak up. I don’t read silence too well.”

 

“I-I think he will……”

 

Jim sighed and finished the sentence for her, “Take me away?”

 

She nodded. Her round, small face was pale, her pouty lips (which she always decorated with gloss before she came to see him, he had observed) were pursed tightly together and her big hazel eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Yes,” she said quietly, clearing her throat repeatedly, “I can pack your belongings and send them to his address, which he has already given us. I already told him that and he said that’s okay. You can leave immediately…….with him.”

 

“Look at me.”

 

“No…..please, I need to go now.”

 

“Lisa?” He insisted. She looked at him. His expressive eyes and those bottomless dark orbs shone with a glint of madness and delight, a look many at the facility found intimidating but one she had grown to love and adore. “This was going to happen,” Jim said, standing up from his desk chair, “Sooner or later, this was meant to be. Please find a way to deal with it.”

 

“I will try,” she said, swallowing hard, “Can I say something to you?”

 

He shook his head, “It’s best if you don’t.”

 

***

 

Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in England, a key member of the Queen’s counsel and the chief of MI5 and MI6, acted like a patriarch entrusted with the care of his best friend’s young child. From the time Jim had walked out of the facility to entire their journey towards Mycroft’s mansion on Ingram Avenue in a bullet-proof black limousine, the older man had constantly checked on Jim’s comfort, convenience, his state of mind, expectations he had from his new life as well as Mycroft’s own plans to look after all his needs. At one point Jim asked, “I have never heard you talk this much at one go. It’s like….as much as you talk in a whole week?”

 

“No,” Mycroft realized he was trying too hard and tried to hold himself back, “Make that one whole month.”

 

Jim smirked and said nothing. He observed his surroundings carefully as the chauffeur driven car entered the posh neighborhood and made its way towards the mansion at the end of the street. Before he could even ask a question, Mycroft began to give him the full spiel. “Seven bedroom suites, eight bathrooms, three master suites with dressing area and full-size walk-in closet space, three reception rooms, a family parlor, a games room with a wet bar, wine cellar, three home offices, a sauna, a gym, indoor temperature controlled pool, landscaped garden, tennis court, conservatory which doubles up as greenhouse and breakfast room, two formal dining rooms, two kitchens, six car garage, staff quarters accessible by separate entrance……”

 

“Breathe.”

 

“Yes, I am…..well…..”

 

“I get my own room, right?”

 

“I live alone there James. I have a butler, a housekeeper and there are four bodyguards who stay round the clock, in shifts. But I am the only resident. So…..yes, you get a bedroom suite, right next to mine.”

 

“Lab?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Home office?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ll be fine here.”

 

Mycroft heaved out a relieved breath which was so loud, Jim had to suppress a chuckle.

 

***

 

Jim lay in his bedroom that night, awake, thinking. Mycroft sure lived it up in style, he thought as he lay on a Super King-Size bed with cream panels, upholstered raised headboard, sleek footboard and built in home theater viewing experience. From a flat TV screen, DVD player, Dolby-Digital sound speakers and even a champagne and popcorn holder, everything emerged from different sides of the bed at the mere press of a remote button. The bedroom suite was commensurately huge and also boasted of an anteroom, a small sitting room, a walk-in closet of humongous size, en-suite bathroom and a large dressing room.

 

The mansion was beautiful, luxurious, clean and spotless. He had seen several luxury cars like Porsches, Mercs, Ferraris and Lamborghinis jostle for space in the basement garage. In his closet and bathroom were a whole range of clothes, shoes, accessories and toiletries, all branded, expensive and classy. He couldn’t fault Mycroft for keeping things extremely comfortable and opulent for him.

 

Still, his future and any thoughts about it unnerved him. After spending a month in coma, three more months in a hospital room and, later, eight months at a rehab and correction facility, he had lost the touch of _‘living in a home’_. Although used to high-end luxuries in his earlier life, he found all these things an excess and vaguely disconcerting. For example, the size of this bedroom. It was big enough to accommodate a volleyball court. He felt lost in it and craved for the comfort and coziness of the average sized room he had at the MI6 facility. It was not cramped or tiny, it had enough space for the bed, dressing table, chest of drawers, a couple of bean bags, one deep closet and a desk with two chairs. That was all he needed.

 

“James….”

 

The door opened and he heard Mycroft pad into the anteroom.

 

“I’m awake.”

 

“I saw the lights on and thought let me check on you. Do you need something?”

 

“I like keeping one light on, a dimmed light that’s within easy reach to turn on or off. I told you this when you checked on me barely fifteen minutes ago over the intercom. If I do need something I’ll call you, Harry or Eileen. Go to sleep Mycroft.”

 

“Um….I……can I come in there?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Mycroft came up to the bed and perched on the other side, close to the footboard. He fingered the edge of the bedclothes and looked at the bedside lamp which was shaped like the dome of a Chinese Pagoda. “The Prime Minister is very pleased with your work,” he said, “I wanted to thank you for that. There are plenty more projects coming up but if, at some point, you wish to do some active field duty, then by all means feel free to volunteer.”

 

Jim gave him a suspicious look. With his tousled hair, sleepy eyes and calm expression, it was hard for his host to associate him with the manic, destructive, violent, mentally ill criminal mastermind who had taken the world by storm and brought it to its knees. “See,” Mycroft quickly tried to make amends, “Working in a research and analysis role and living in my…..care, it’s not a permanent setup. One more year and we will take a call again, if you can start a regular, normal, unsupervised life and undertake a profession of your choice. As long as you still work for the British government and are available on demand, no one will stop the new setup. I did bring you home, as I had promised earlier, didn’t I?”

 

Jim nodded.

 

“We have given back most of your assets,” Mycroft willed himself to not get emotional as his body and mind craved for a simple look of assurance from Jim that he was happy, fulfilled and optimistic about the future. Guilt had kept him awake many nights and on occasions when he managed to sleep, he had been plagued by nightmares of a stricken Jim or a dying Sherlock or an explosive going off somewhere. He wanted to sleep easy, sleep through the night and hopefully feel twenty pounds lighter when that burden on his conscience was lifted.

 

“Correction,” Jim said, “Most of it was confiscated. I am sure it contributed to a raised figure in the national coffers last year.”

 

“You are still a millionaire many times over.”

 

“That is not the point.”

 

“Okay, what would it take?”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“James…..why? After all these months….”

 

“Precisely. After all these months I still want him.”

 

Mycroft nodded slightly and sat quietly for a long moment. Jim had no movement or conversation, he simply kept staring ahead at the opposite wall. “Fair enough,” he said, wishing Jim would have _given him a chance instead_ but it was not his style nor his inclination to grab his brother’s share or talk Jim out of it. But there was something he wanted the Irishman to know and agree with. “He will be here after another year, if not more. However, his return doesn’t guarantee what you want. This isn’t about getting you a car, a suit, a laptop or a baby grand piano, like I did over the past six months. You can meet Sherlock but whether it works out or not depends totally on him….and you of course.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Mycroft lingered around the room, adjusting the sheer curtains, the thicker outer drapes, pushing and pulling the ottoman and loveseat at one corner, then meticulously unfolding the edges of the throw rug until they were straight as rods. He stayed there somehow until he heard Jim fall asleep. Only when he was sure of that did he approach the bed carefully, noiselessly, walking on tiptoes and kneeling next to it. Jim’s face was inches from his own, attractive and peaceful in repose, his eyes shut, lashes sweeping the cheekbones, mouth firmly closed, the steady sounds of his inhales and exhales clearly audible from the short distance. Mycroft reached out for a moment but withdrew his hand, not sure if he should touch the sleeping man.

 

“I want the best for you,” he whispered, “James.”

 

He switched off the light and slowly padded out of the room. Once the door had clicked shut, Jim’s eyes snapped open, an iffy, fiery look in them as the orbs almost glowed in the darkness. Moments later, a slender hand emerged from the covers and turned the light back on.

 

***

 

_6 months later_

 

“Are you sure you don’t want any credit for this?”

 

The German inspector asked, looking rather shocked at Sherlock’s reluctance. “You helped us uncover one of the biggest, most dangerous sleeper terrorist cells and we recovered arms and ammunition worth over fifty million euros. You don’t want money or recognition, nothing??”

 

Sherlock was already thinking about his next destination, one which Mycroft had assigned to him a few weeks ago. Latin America, Peru. Then Venezuela. Then Serbia and probably back to London from there. He had an early morning flight to catch the very next day but before that he had a very special celebration that night. “Price or popularity aren’t my motivators,” he said, “I get motivated by challenges, by competition, by brilliant people who can occasionally make me feel like a numbskull.”

 

“Oh…..but there can’t be anyone at your horizon, let alone at your level.”

 

“There is…..was. On a given day he was even better than me. But he’s gone now…..”

 

“Gone?”

 

“He died a year and half ago. Tomorrow is his birthday. Excuse me, I have a celebration to take care of.”

 

The two German men, the inspector and his lieutenant, stared in surprise after Sherlock as the tall detective walked away from there. With his imposing height, signature curly mane, trademark frock coat and the brisk and sweeping movements, he made almost every head turn in his direction as he exited the station and walked towards a motorcycle parked nearby. “You see that Franz,” the inspector lit a cigarette as they watched the Englishman leave, “That man just gave us our next promotions and asked for nothing in return. I guess no one in this world can get everything. This man has it all, handsomeness, brains, charisma, but he has lost the love of his life.”

 

“Sad, truly,” his lieutenant replied, “You have any idea who the lucky one is….I mean, was?”

 

“How are they lucky? They died an untimely death, didn’t they?”

 

***

 

The clock struck twelve.

 

Sherlock had already readied everything and sat himself down on the carpet, putting the low-height Japanese table right in the middle of it. On it were all the items he needed for Jim’s birthday celebrations.

 

A black-forest cake, candles, a bottle of champagne, strawberries and cream, spicy bite size chunks of crumb-fried chicken, plus potato, onion and baby corn shaslik, he had neatly arranged all of those on the table top, with cutlery and glasses for two. There was a photo of Jim in the middle, a red rose and a black rose on either side of it and a small velvet box in front. The moment the last ‘cuckooo’ cry of the cuckoo-clock stopped, Sherlock blew out the candles and cut off a small slice of the cake.

 

“Happy B’day Jim.” He ate the cake and popped open the bottle of champagne, “18 months since you left, I miss you every single day!”

 

He closed his eyes and prayed, like he had done on Jim’s birthday the year before. Along with prayers for Jim’s soul to rest in peace, he wished for something for himself. He wanted to see Jim again. Just one more time. One last time. Alas…..it was not to be.

 

Still, he felt _hope_ cradle a corner of his heart. If he eliminated the improbable part of his wish, _that Jim should love him_ , whatever remained, _his wish to see Jim again_ , however impossible, _might just come true_.


	2. Free Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds out Jim is alive

_7 months later_

 

Sherlock entered 221B and stared at the room for a full three minutes.

 

How he had missed this place, the familiar sights and sounds and smells, the ubiquitous sound of the traffic outside, the glow of street lamps permeating through the windows and casting slanting rays on the wall and ceiling.

 

He staggered to his familiar chair, kicked off his boots and sank down on it. It was early Fall days and therefore, cold, but he didn’t have the strength or energy to kickstart the heating system. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would come upstairs and do that for him, bring him some tea as well. She had kept the flat clean, breezy, lived-in, something he was grateful for (though it was a bit too clean for him, he missed the dust). Clearly, she had never believed he was gone and had hopes of his return sometime in the future. The joy with which she had welcomed him that morning spoke volumes about her feelings and relief.

 

Not so much could be spoken for John. He had grieved terribly, suffered horribly and then turned into a rather bitter, angry, violent little man who now considered his proposal to Mary, his newfound girlfriend, more important than Sherlock’s return from his exile.

 

It had come to blows and swear words. Ouch, his nose still hurt.

 

Eventful first day in London after his two year sabbatical from the country. In fact it had been two eventful years around the world. He needed to rest, to regroup, to remember. He wanted to visit those spots in London which had memories of Jim. The swimming pool, that Italian restaurant, the street outside Kitty Riley’s house, the court, the Tower of London, Victoria and Albert museum, Lyceum theatre, Jim’s Conduit Street Penthouse……

 

He dozed off.

 

When he woke up he saw Mycroft’s apparition sitting on the chair where John used to usually sit and read his newspaper. _‘John’s chair’_ , he called it, but now it needed a new name.

 

“Forgive me, I abused you a lot after Serbia,” he muttered, not sure if he should be afraid or not, “You can give me hell when we meet in hell……”

 

“Sherlock, are you dreaming?”

 

“Uhnnn…..”

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

“What? What?” Sherlock jumped up. Mycroft was still seated on John’s chair but he looked more solid this time, less scary. He wore a suit that cost three times the furniture in Mrs. Hudson’s flat and his skin glowed with vitality and health. The two intervening years had treated his elder brother rather well. “You…..you’re not a ghost,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

 

“Rubbish,” Mycroft’s upper lip curled up in a sneer, “You were the one playing dead, not me. So, how did it go with John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

“Hudders started with the one thing she does best, cry and howl and repeat my name over and over again,” Sherlock began, getting up with a huge flourish to fetch his cigarettes (he had realized that the good old room missed the smell of his cigarettes and residual cologne, and he needed to fix that), “She fed me a nice breakfast and hopefully she will brew us some nice, hot tea now….” He opened the door and yelled, “MRS. HUDSONNN, TEEEA! Lestrade gave me a big tight hug and seemed genuinely happy to see me. Gifted me a nice new coat, same as this but in dark charcoal grey color. So now I have four of these coats, black, navy, charcoal grey and dark brownish green….. MRS. HUDSOOOON!”

 

“And John?”

 

Mycroft was calm and composed as ever. Sometimes Sherlock felt like checking him all over. Was he permanently on battery-saver mode?

 

“That didn’t go down well. He was getting engaged….I mean trying to get engaged to this lady….nice one though, her name is Mary, yes, Mary Morstan, she was supposed to wear his ring. He had got a rather parochial design for her, might have suited her mother more than Mary, but John is never known for his great choices. He has even kept some fuzz over his upper lip. It makes him look like an old man, as old as you.”

 

“You’re truly back,” Mycroft said, “And meaner than ever. Anyways, so how did John react after the engagement?”

 

“He didn’t,” Sherlock said, “I sort of…..interrupted that. He punched me. Blew a fuse. I didn’t react because I hadn’t really treated him fair when I……”

 

Mrs. Hudson trotted in at that point with a pot of tea and two plates heaped with sandwiches. “You didn’t eat anything since the breakfast I made for you, right Sherlock?” She asked, looking radiant and happy to see her tenant back and eager to fuss over him like she used to earlier, “Better have some sandwiches now. Mycroft, you can have a few of those too, there’s plenty for both you Holmes boys. These ones here are the smoked turkey and lettuce ones and those on that plate are cheese, bacon and olives.”

 

“Thank y……” Mycroft began but he was rudely interrupted by Sherlock who held the door of the room open and snapped. “Get out now Mrs. Hudson.”

 

She wasn’t offended. Instead she flashed a huge smile and said, “Sherlock, you’re really back!!!”

 

Mycroft briefly raised his brows and lowered them.

 

Sherlock threw his brother a keen look and began his usual speech. “You seem to have put in an effort to lose weight and improve your looks…..no, wait, you’re trying to look younger. The colors of your suit remain the same but the ties are brighter. Oh look there, someone had hair transplant to deal with his receding hairline. A better cream perhaps to give you those shinier cheeks! Clearly you’re infatuated with someone or you’re receiving your long-awaited knighthood very soon. That’s it, you are about to get knighted and that elusive promotion they had been holding back because they deem you too young for it. Your fortieth birthday is next month and……”

 

“Sherlock stop.”

 

“I’m right, as usual…..”

 

“Stop, wait.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Would you rather talk about the mishap in Serbia? I was there for a month, one whole fucking month, getting slow starved, sleep-deprived, mentally and physically tormented. It seems that at the same time my very own brother was fawning over himself and getting a new wardrobe, more hair, better skin, preening over himself like one of those forty-something women. You know, such women go for a blunt or bob cut the moment they wish to look half their age. You did well by reducing your four….no, fivehead.”

 

“I got you out of there,” Mycroft said crossly, “Or do you think you teleported yourself back to London from Serbian jail.”

 

“Yeah, but only after I had suffered hell.”

 

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

 

“Yeah, but you also promised me you’d have my back.”

 

“Then you shouldn’t have messed with Count Maupertuis. I told you to deal with him differently. Because of you I had to get into field work and working my way through to that prison was not going to be an overnight affair. No one could have done this overnight. I also learned Serbian, to save your arse.”

 

“Language brother mine, what would mummy say?” Sherlock huffed. Then he frowned, “Why do I have this feeling you didn’t really want me to solve the last piece of puzzle related to Jim….I mean Moriarty. Was there something you wanted me to ‘not know’?”

 

“It’s time you knew then.”

 

Mycroft had the rare pleasure of seeing Sherlock go wide-eyed. It reminded him of moments during their childhood, when Sherlock would sit on the floor and draw or solve simple scientific puzzles while Mycroft did his homework and entertained the little one with short stories in between lessons. Sherlock would look like this, wide eyed, slack jawed, looking at him in awe.

 

“Two years ago a terribly injured young man was brought to a hospital known for treating and curing MI6 operatives with a wide variety of injuries,” Mycroft began, tapping his finger on the arm rest of the chair he was sitting on, “He had massive brain damage, from hemorrhage to tissue loss and even a bad disturbance of the basic cell structure. The doctors had given him up for dead but we insisted he be revived, kept under observation, that every single effort be put in to save him. Miracles do occur when the right efforts are applied and the young man healed, woke up from the coma he had slipped into and slowly began his painful and tiresome rehabilitation journey.”

 

Sherlock was listening to him but his eyeballs kept moving rapidly, as if he was trying to think ad observe and hear at the same time, rapidly switching from one mode to the other.

 

Mycroft went on, “The recovery was remarkable, in fact. It took a while for his normal speech and complete eyesight to be restored and for him to walk without being overtly clumsy and uncoordinated but a year later he was leading an 85% normal life. Today, he is 100% normal, a changed man from his previous avatar and someone who is highly valued by international cognoscenti and reconnaissance groups, but more particularly by MI6 and our defense secretary. He lives in my care for the past year.”

 

Sherlock felt as if his entire blood had run to his feet.

 

This couldn’t be!

 

He was scared to hope. He was unsure of his own capacity of handling the disappointment should this turn out to be a false alarm, a mistaken identity.

 

“Well,” Mycroft asked, a bit surprised, “Aren’t you going to ask me who this person is?”

 

“No. Because I already know who he is.”

 

“Should I be asking how?” Mycroft stated, lowering his brows. He knew his brother was very sharp about this matters and could pick up the trail of a bolted colt by merely glancing at the haystack next to the stables. Still, he was curious.

 

“Jim,” Sherlock replied, looking dazed, faraway, “I saw you tapping your fingers to an inaudible strain of music. Jim used to do that. He used to tap his fingers to music _only he could hear_.”

 

He had half expected Mycroft to say something like ‘What nonsense’ or ‘Rubbish’ or the more British ‘Bollocks’ which Mycroft loved to say whenever someone said something that didn’t make sense, but there was nothing but silence from his brother and he knew that his sibling was silent only when he had to confirm something unbelievable without using any words.

 

“OhMyGod,” he felt his breath hitch, stomach spasm and a strange shiver run down his spine, “It’s true, isn’t it?” _Please, please, don’t say it is not, I have hoped for too long to suffer an excruciating disappointment about Jim_.

 

“Sherlock I might not have told you the complete truth about the situation with Jim,” Mycroft said in a solemn tone, and did he look a bit guilty, so un-Mycroft-ish, “Jim was totally out of control so I had to intervene, had to tell him to back off, but I had to offer him something in return. I promised him a pardon to all his crimes and that was easy because there was no proof whatsoever of any, I further promised protection and safe passage for his closest aides, retention of his legitimate businesses and investments, his properties….well, most of them, and a clean chit if he chose to work with us. He accepted and told me clearly he wouldn’t harm you if you don’t attack him.”

 

Sherlock’s head began to spin. “That-That was all a set up…..Christ!”

 

“Had to keep up the façade of Moriarty vs Holmes,” Mycroft explained, “Too many other parties were involved, there were assassins, governments, intelligence units, even terrorists and buccaneers of our times. As I said, the situation had become uncontrollable and we had to give it some conclusion. He had to pretend to kill himself so we gave him a gun loaded with blanks and organized for you to have a soft landing when you jumped. Things worked out good for you but in his case……”

 

“Wait, I got it, he shot himself in the mouth.”

 

“Even with a blank, the impact was enough to rattle his brain hard inside his skull and when he fell, he cracked open the back of his head and caused bleeding, lots of it.”

 

“Stop, I-I don’t want to….remember, please.”

 

“He is alive. He is absolutely fine. He doesn’t have any memories of Barts rooftop though and some other patchy memories of certain phases of his life, he also has some ‘attacks’, anxiety or anger driven ones which sometimes border on violence, but other than that he is perfectly normal. He is healthy. He is redeemed and reformed. What you’re going to meet is a Jim who is vastly different from the mastermind he used to be…..still brilliant though. He cracked Code Z2941 for us.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

 

“Yeah,” Mycroft seemed proud, “One more thing, I am indeed getting knighted in two months. Have to admit, it’s largely due to the work you did and the efforts he put in. The least I can do is get you two back together….now that I am convinced John and you were never really a couple.”

 

“Fuck,” Sherlock scowled, “You can’t control my life. Whether it’s John, Jim or a porcupine, it’s my choice. ‘John is getting married so let’s push Sherlock towards Jim,’ this mindset reeks of control. I can’t be controlled Mike, neither can Jim be kept within boundaries. We’re free spirits so we’ll meet only if you agree to let it be on _our terms_. If not, we’ll think of alternatives.”

 

Mycroft knew his brother too well and understood exactly what those ‘alternatives’ could be. The two geniuses could make or break the world at their will and wish. Sherlock was like a comet, blazing and blistering in his pace and brilliance, and Jim was like a meteor, fiery and dazzling in his whimsical luminosity. Individually they could burn up an ice-covered land or set fire to the ocean but together they could simply set the whole world on fire, leading to what could be termed ‘blitzkrieg’. “I haven’t laid down any rules,” he said to his brother, “But true freedom comes with boundaries and those must be respected. No one is exempted from that, not even you.”

 

“What is the catch?” Sherlock asked with a stony expression.

 

“There’s none, don’t be silly,” Mycroft was equally stony in his response.

 

“You didn’t tell me for two long years but now you’re telling me, there has to be something.”

 

“I didn’t want to distract you from your mission. At the same time I wasn’t sure if you wanted to come back to John and resume your life here at 221B with him. A revelation as big as this needs face to face communication. That’s why I waited. Now, do you wanna meet him or not?”

 

“Haha. Does a camel need to drink water? Does a kingfisher want to fish? Does a bird wish to fly? Of course I have to meet him, I want to meet him.”

 

“Come on then, I’ll take you to my new mansion on Ingram Avenue.”

 

“No,” Sherlock said rather loudly, startling Mycroft, “No, not like this. Not tonight.”

 

If Mycroft was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Tomorrow then? Come home, I’ll text the address.”

 

“Yeah, now you can go. I need to think.”

 

Mycroft waited for a few seconds to see if Sherlock had anything else to say or not. But the detective seemed to have withdrawn into his mind palace and was miles away from there. With a small sigh Mycroft got up and left the flat, wondering what made _Sherlock refuse_ to meet Jim that very night. From his observations and deductions, he was sure his brother would have jumped at the opportunity. But he _didn’t. How strange!_


	3. Cold feet colder plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shall we, brother mine?”

Jim rushed to the door the moment he heard the car pull up on the driveway, knocking off a low table at the foyer and almost crashing into Harry, the butler. The butler, a man of fifty with impeccable manners and immaculate poise rolled his eyes slightly but stepped aside, letting their esteemed guest open the door even before the master of the house had had a chance to ring the bell.

 

“Hi James,” Mycroft greeted him.

 

Jim didn’t greet him back. He stepped past Mycroft and peered into the porch, then stepped down to the driveway and looked into the car. When he didn’t see Sherlock anywhere, he turned and looked at Mycroft with a thousand questions written in his huge eyes. Mycroft gave an answer but he was uncharacteristically hesitant and unsure. “Um….I, well, I did go to 221B Baker Street, and I met him and I told him…..that you are here, with me, alive and kicking. He….took it with a pinch of salt…..but deep down I think he was shaken. So…..well, he needs some more time I guess…..he didn’t agree to come home tonight. Don’t worry, he’ll come here tomorrow….it’s only a little longer…..”

 

“I have waited two years,” Jim lashed out, “At least, one and half years, ever since I was capable enough to think for myself again I have been waiting for this day. This was one of the conditions of our agreement Mike, you had told me he will be with me as soon as he’s back in London.”

 

“He will be, he will be.”

 

“THEN WHERE IS HE???”

 

“He is an adult, a free citizen, I can’t drag him here.”

 

“He didn’t want to see me? You feel you had to drag him here?!?”

 

“That’s not exactly what I said,” Mycroft tried to be patient and gentle with the irate man, “He just needs time to absorb this. He was none too happy that I had concealed this information from him so far. He was upset with me and lashed out at me. He will come around James, just give him some more time, please.”

 

“Fine,” Jim stormed back indoors, “So be it.”

 

“James…..”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

“Dinner?”

 

“M’not’h’ngry”

 

“But James……”

 

The door slammed somewhere upstairs. The butler awkwardly watched the exchange before quietly taking Mycroft’s coat and briefcase and scuttling away from there. The housekeeper Eileen, who had arrived at the spot with Mycroft’s tea and early evening snack, quickly took the tray into Mycroft’s home office without a word. Mycroft stood there, wondering why he felt a bit disappointed that Jim showed no visible signs of happiness at his return, something he was so used to over the past year. Without warning, that pleasant feeling of togetherness and companionship had crept up between him and Jim and now that Jim seemed to be only concerned with Sherlock, a tiny bit of discomfort bubbled inside him.

 

The least he had expected was that Jim should consider him as a friend and show, at least, the importance and trust that came with it.

 

He did what he usually did when he was confused, which was not often, and a bit upset, which was similarly very rare – he called his trusted and loyal assistant, Anthea.

 

“Boss.”

 

“Is Sherlock okay?”

 

“The surveillance reports suggest he’s pacing about in his bedroom. At some point he figured out we were watching him and showed the middle finger. No, nothing violent or dangerous, but he is most definitely disturbed and upset. Did he not find the news happy or exciting?”

 

“He blames me, as usual.”

 

“Yes, but when he was told Moriarty is alive didn’t his happiness override the usual strife and arguments he engages in…..um, with you?”

 

“I think he was angry. It’s a bit too much for him to absorb. He came back and saw John with that former assassin…..”

 

“Have you told him that, boss?”

 

“No. I haven’t. She is necessary in the whole scheme of things. Those days pf AGRA are truly behind her and she isn’t a threat to anyone anymore. On the other hand she is capable enough of looking after herself and will always support John when it comes to solving cases with Sherlock. A completely maintenance-free woman. If you consider the bigger picture, we want John to be happy without Sherlock and yet be his friend.”

 

“Yes boss…..but where does that leave you.”

 

“We’ll talk later Anthea, I think the Foreign Secretary is calling me. You know he always insists that we take his calls.”

 

Anthea sighed as he hung up. “White elephant standing in the corner of the room, being ignored despite its ubiquitous presence. But for how long chief, for how long?”

 

***

 

Mary watched as John shaved off his moustache and looked at himself in the mirror from all angles. He had asked her several times already if he had put on weight, if he had lost touch with exercise and fitness, if he needed to eat healthier, if he was dressing like a typical middle aged man. John was thirty-eight, he was still a bit away from middle age and he was fitter and smarter and far more agile than men ten years younger. Moreover, he was never a man who needed anybody’s validation. But Sherlock’s return had changed all that. Mary smirked as she watched her partner suck in his stomach.

 

“Your stomach is flat,” she called out from the bedroom, “You’re making it concave now. Not needed. You’re fine John, he likes you the way you are.”

 

“Who are you talking about?” John said dismissively, quickly tying the sash of his robe as he padded towards the walk-in closet, “Who care what Sherlock thinks about me? I am just trying to be careful in my thirties so I don’t end up regretting things in my sixties. I am a doctor, healthy living and fitness should start with me….” He picked out a shirt, made a face and looked for another. Then he picked out a third, then a fourth, then he angrily yelled, “What the hell Mary! I don’t have the right clothes, or enough clothes. I need to buy a few.” He eventually stomped out of the closet, looking so disgruntled and annoyed, that Mary got out of bed, walked in there and picked out an outfit for him.

 

“How about this one?”

 

“It’s an old one. Bought it three years ago.”

 

“You used to wear it during our early days….when we called our dates ‘business meetings’.”

 

John smiled despite his annoyance, “Yeah! Those days. But this is an old outfit and I have worn it many times. Still, this is the best I have in my wardrobe I guess.” He walked back into the bedroom with the clothes Mary had chosen, “You have good choice! You always choose well.”

 

Mary smiled as her partner walked past her but the moment he was out of earshot she murmured, “Yet your life is ruled by choices you made years ago, with Sherlock, about Sherlock. I always knew John, I always knew.”

 

***

 

Jim had been waiting so long for that text, that coveted text from the equally coveted number from the most coveted man on earth, that when his phone pinged he almost fell off the bed trying to reach out for his phone. Eyes shining and smile growing wider he looked at the text. Then his smile dimmed and he resisted a strong urge to roll his eyes. Because Sherlock was _just Sherlock_ , he had taken a whole day and night and half of the next day just to send him a single word text.

_Howdy - SH_

                                                                            

Jim lay on his back, looking at the text and that familiar number which he had memorized within seconds of first noting it. Months, years of wait and finally the text was here. Even if it was a simple one word greeting, he was overjoyed. But he didn’t dare rejoice! Not yet. He knew the way ahead was as slippery as an eel and as uncertain as the weather in England. He was aware Mycroft was waiting in the fringes, ready to step in if the younger sibling floundered. He knew he could run so far that nobody, not the brilliant Sherlock nor the powerful Mycroft could trace him. But those possibilities didn’t excite him. He didn’t want those situations, he wanted quite the opposite.

 

He wanted to be here, in England, in London, close to the Holmes brothers. _Especially Sherlock_.

 

“Two can play this game,” he muttered as he typed.

 

_Hi – JM_

_Didn’t know there was a cellular network in hell – SH_

_Is there one in Heaven? You must be texting from there – JM_

_Heaven is still above hell – SH_

_As they say, the boring go to Heaven for the weather, the interesting and adventurous go to hell for the company – JM_

_Relax, I meant ‘hell’ as in staying with my brother – SH_

_Oh is it? I meant Heaven as in being reunited with John – JM_

_To tell you the truth, Heaven and Hell coexist side by side on earth. In a way we have both experienced them over the past two years – SH_

 

Jim frowned at the screen. _Why did Sherlock avoid talking about Johnny boy? Johnny the pet? John the diminutive doctor who is literally an insect to be crushed, a bug to splatter, one who can’t hold his own without Sherlock hovering around him like a mother hen. What the hell!_

 

His phone pinged again. Sherlock had sent him another text, a simple _‘Are you still there’_ , but that seemed like a small triumph to Jim. He had been quiet for a bit longer than the usual intervals between their texts and responses and that had unsettled Sherlock a tiny bit, at least enough for him to check if he had been abandoned in the conversation. He quickly texted him back the next moment. _Are we going to just text and talk or meet and talk – JM_

 

 _There, I said it. I told him what I had to say._ Jim stared at the screen and waited.

 

Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock was clutching the phone with both hands and staring at the screen like a moth attracted to a bright flame on a dark night. He had been trying his best to hold back his eagerness and emotions from the former mastermind (or at least that’s what the powerful Mycroft believed, so part of it must be true, he must have turned over a new leaf). So, when Jim sent the text saying he wanted to meet, Sherlock whooped with joy. He startled the neighbor’s cat that had fallen into the habit of lying on the ledge of his window and staring at him, seemingly surprised that he did, _indeed_ , live there. His absence had given the feline an impression this was abandoned territory.

 

_Of course, let me talk to Mycroft – SH_

 

Sherlock got only a smiley and an ‘ok’ in response from Jim but that was fine. He was going to see Jim again, after two years, three weeks, five days and…. _he checked his watch_ , seven and half hours.

 

***

 

Mycroft was happy and sad at the latest text he had received from his brother. Sherlock wanted to meet Jim that evening and, like a gracious host and patron and elder brother, Mycroft had to offer his house as the meeting point and suggest they all have dinner together. He had even called home and instructed Eileen to cook a nice four course meal. She would do the needful, he knew she would have probably called his mummy by now to find out what Sherlock liked to eat. He didn’t have to worry about dinner at all. If he was worried about something, it was his own position once the two geniuses became friends again.

 

What if they became something more?

 

He spent the whole day half-thinking about the evening and half-immersed in his work. Lady Smallwood paid him a visit, he had a meeting with a senior minister and there was a conference call with several operatives spread across the globe. He did his job with aplomb, he was so used to this work and so passionate about it that he could sleepwalk through the assignments and there would be no loopholes whatsoever. But unlike other days, the success of missions, any good news about espionage assignments or praise for his wily ways failed to make him happy. He just kept checking his watch and wondering when the hour hand of the clock would reach 5 PM and he’d pick Sherlock up from Baker Street.

 

***

 

Sherlock had only once before felt this nervous in his life and that was from a day in his childhood when he had got lost during a holiday and couldn’t find his parents and brother anywhere around him. Challenging situations had never been a problem for him and anxiety or paranoia were total strangers in his life. Worry didn’t exist in his dictionary. His self-assurance and supreme ability had always kept him a few inches away from stress and nervousness.

 

But not today.

 

He had changed his outfit three times before finally settling for the purple shirt Jim so liked on him. He had once even told him so, calling it ‘the purple shirt of sex’. Since then, Sherlock had loved wearing purple. Not a man to be easily swayed by other people’s opinions or compliments, he had always made an exception for a man named James Isaac Moriarty. If Moriarty praised him, it was always worth 10X of a compliment from anyone else, John included. He set his curls carefully, splashed on ample after-shave on his cheeks, adjusted his single breasted blazer four times and finally decided he was ready to meet Jim.

 

Taking a few deep breaths to compose himself, he bounded downstairs where Mycroft was waiting in the car for him. “Shall we, brother mine?” Mycroft asked, looking busy on his phone.

 

“By all means.”

 

“Then let’s go.”

 

The journey was tense, silent, the air in the car rife with unspoken words. Sherlock knew Mycroft was pretending to be busy in order to avoid conversation and Mycroft knew Sherlock’s silence was not driven by thoughts about a case or an eagerness to observe London traffic and pedestrians. He was sure Sherlock didn’t want to talk, especially with him, and it was perhaps best that way.

 

When the car drew outside the mansion, aptly named ‘Knightsbridge House’, Mycroft got out first and walked straight to the door, using his key code to unlock it. That day he didn’t see Jim in the foyer or hallway, probably because the Irishman was unwilling to show extra eagerness in front of Sherlock. “James,” he called out, “James, we are home. Are you in the living room …?”

 

Jim came out from the home office, looking shy yet excited. “Hi.”

 

“Come on, Sherlock is here, come…..”

 

They waited for almost a minute before they realized something was wrong. Together they headed for the door where they found Mycroft’s chauffeur standing, looking bewildered. “Mr. Holmes just left,” he said, “He literally ran out of here.”


	4. Ordinary doesn't suit us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's revenge

_I am sorry – SH_

_You should be – JM_

 

Sherlock winced and cringed when he saw the text. Jim had every right to be severely disappointed with him just as Mycroft had every right to be angry at him. He had let them both down, especially Jim, whom he had promised to meet. If he was entirely truthful, he had actually made that commitment without even thinking about whether he was ready for it, because he really wasn’t. The moment the fancy long black limo had rolled into the sprawling, posh property, Sherlock had begun to hyperventilate. It was like extreme cramps in his stomach and a rather hollow, empty feeling in his chest and throat. The feeling of despondency was indescribable. Therefore the first chance he had got, he had made a cowardly escape.

_I deserve the judgment but I wasn’t aware I was on a timeline – SH_

_Fuck you very much. Now fuck off – JM_

_I wasn’t ready. You always knew I am there. I thought you were gone. I am a little less prepared for this than you are – SH_

_Will you ever be ready – JM_

_I will be. Just let me decide the right time, okay – SH_

_Funny you should be the only one to decide on the right time. That way even I could demand a day and a slot of my preference – JM_

_Give me a couple of days, please – SH_

_Jim? – SH_

_Jim are you not going to reply – SH_

_Please. See I even said please – SH_

 

Jim didn’t reply and Sherlock almost dialed his number to talk to him. But the moment of whimsical fancies vanished and he quickly set the phone aside. Nope. Not a good idea giving the other man too much importance. They were going to meet after a significant amount of time had lapsed and after near life-changing experiences on either side. He expected Jim to be a bit more considerate.

_How about day after tomorrow at Baker Street. You know the way. You even know the flat too well. Come over at four – SH_

 

_K – JM_

 

***

 

Sherlock had done something that day which he never thought he’d ever do in his life. He had cleaned the entire flat, thrown out junk, organized a nice spread fit for high-tea and donned a nice suit. He had also paid a visit to a salon and grooming center that morning and had a haircut and a nice facial. He had checked himself in all shiny surfaces that day, from dishes to refrigerator doors to mirrors and even the phone screen, deciding time and again that one curl that fell on his forehead was out of place. He had fixed it again and again, hoping he looked at his best when Jim arrived.

 

Mrs. Hudson had observed this transformation in him in bits and pieces and seemed pleased. She was also surprised but had chosen not to comment at all. Sherlock was thankful for that, the last thing he needed that day was some boring idle chatter.

 

Four o’ clock came and went and Sherlock began to get jumpy and hyper. If Jim was known for something other than his brilliance, his immense knowledge and his devil-may-care attitude, it was his punctuality. He always liked to make a grand entrance and he ensured it was on time, give or take a couple of minutes. So, when the clock said it was almost four-thirty, Sherlock began to feel something was wrong. He checked his cell phone but there were no calls or messages. In his desperation he even called Mycroft to check if there were any cases, hoping his elder brother would talk about Jim’s whereabouts, but the conversation turned limp after a few sentences and Mycroft didn’t even mention Jim once.

 

At five he called Jim, only to be greeted by voice mail.

 

By six he knew he had been stood up. His whole body and mind burned with shame, indignation and mortification. Did Jim do this on purpose?

 

He quietly got out of his clothes and back into his pajamas and robe, threw the food into the trash, finished four cups of tea and took refuge in his music. He took out his violin and started to play it.

 

He remembered Jim’s first visit to his abode. He had been playing the violin when he had first heard the sound of his footsteps on the staircase. Jim’s light and measured movements, the cautious yet firm step on the creaky stair. The doorknob turning, the familiar figure walking in…..those dark eyes greeting him, the smile, that sinister yet cute and sensuous smile, the way he had sipped the tea and carved ‘I O U’ on the apple.

 

The doorknob turned.

 

Sherlock lowered the violin and sat down on his chair, gripping the edges of the chair so tight his knuckles turned white.

 

Mrs. Hudson walked in.

 

“Sherlock, I was saying……” she began but to her amazement the young sleuth simply dropped the violin on the chair, the bow on a table next to it and stormed to his bedroom, shutting the door with so much force that a picture on the wall next to it fell from its position. The old landlady looked at the closed door and sighed, before she went to pick up the picture and hang it up on the wall again. She resisted the urge for a moment before she pressed her ear to the wood of the door, trying to hear what was going on inside. She heard nothing at all. “I was just going to ask if the food needs to be reheated,” she mumbled to herself before quietly going back downstairs.

 

***

 

_I am sorry, got caught up with a project meeting – JM_

 

Sherlock read the message several times before he replied with a _‘All right – SH’_

 

He had spent a near sleepless night, dozing off at intervals only to be woken up by an ‘imagined knock on the door’ or a sound that seemed like Jim’s hand on the doorknob or his foot on the top step of the staircase. Each and every time the disappointment had hurt him more than the previous time and by morning he was exhausted, not exactly from the lack of sleep (as a detective he had mastered the art of handling lack of sleep and exhaustion and still keeping up his energies) but from his constantly running thoughts and fears.

 

Yes, fears. He was afraid he was never going to be able to face Jim like he once used to. Things had changed over the past two years. A suicide attempt, a two year sabbatical and changed circumstances in their personal lives had led to the two young geniuses becoming somewhat different men from what they once used to be. For a moment Sherlock found himself regretting the loss of those days.

 

Days when they would respond to sarcasm with sarcasm, challenge with a greater challenge and mind games with superior mind games. That’s what made them unique and interesting, to the world and even to each other.

 

_Being ordinary doesn’t suit you Sherlock, nor does it come naturally to Jim._

 

He looked at the phone again. Five minutes since his response, Jim had not said anything at all. Deafening silence from the other side. Well, if that was the case then he would remain silent too. Why on earth would he stick his neck out?

 

The worst part of the whole conundrum was that he understood Jim’s reasons and couldn’t exactly blame him. Funnily enough, he couldn’t blame Mycroft either. Every setback in his life had always found a way to Mycroft’s door and he had ended up blaming his control freak brother for that. Deep down he knew Mycroft was his rock, the man who held him together whenever he was disintegrating, but he was so used to a life where Mycroft was his ‘fall guy’ that he found it comforting in a strange way.

 

In this case though, Mycroft couldn’t be blamed in any way whatsoever. All fingers of blame pointed squarely towards him. _Shit!_

 

Sherlock had no idea how long he had been lying on his bed and _thinking-thinking-thinking-brooding-sighing-thinking-thinking_ when he heard a soft knock on the door. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard someone approach and felt a bit annoyed at his own lapse. Now he didn’t even know who it was. Was it Mrs. Hudson? Mycroft? One of Mycroft’s spies? The neighbor’s teenaged son Peter who did odd jobs for him? One of his homeless network members who wanted to give him some quick information? He remained in bed but sat up a little, rubbing his eyes to see better. His eyes were burning. “Yeah, walk right in if you must,” he called out in his deep baritone.

 

He couldn’t deny that hope springs eternal and that silly hope did whisper ‘Maybe it’s Jim’.

 

“Hi Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock had always been happy to see this man, whether he had admitted that or not. With the arrival of this man his world had stopped being lonely, silent or driven by a single perspective. In many situations this man had been his lightning rod, his sounding board, his advisor and even his validator.

 

But not today. Today he wasn’t happy to see John Watson.

 

John saw that immediately. “I asked Mrs. Hudson if you were asleep and she said she was sure you weren’t. So I took a chance and decided to knock.”

 

“Come in John.”

 

“How are you?”

 

“The nose isn’t broken. I solved a minor case, all on my own. Met people I needed to reconnect with, all except for…..anyways, I am fine.”

 

“Listen, about that night…..”

 

“I’d rather we don’t discuss.”

 

John looked taken aback. The Sherlock he knew would have given a smartass answer, not an evasive answer. Had the man changed so much in the intervening two years? “I came to speak with you,” he said, standing next to the bed but unsure of his welcome or whether he should sit down on it, “I guess we can talk about quite a few things but I’d like to begin with how things should proceed from now onwards.”

 

Sherlock’s green eyes turned towards him. He said nothing.

 

Again, John was unnerved. He had expected Sherlock to get up with a flourish, start talking about cases, begin a rant about Mycroft or about the pathetic state of affairs in London, or at least ask about John’s personal life and his plans of marrying Mary. This silent, introspective, almost secretive Sherlock was not someone he was familiar with. The passage of time, the weird manner in which he had been fooled into thinking Sherlock was dead, the ridiculous way he had reappeared in his life, followed by the altercation they had, those things had chipped away at the easy rapport they used to share. But they were still the same, Sherlock and John, and things could go back to what they used to be…..with some changes from both sides. John knew he would be lying if he said he wasn’t in the mood to slap Sherlock out of his silence right now. He needed him to talk.

 

“Why didn’t you take me into confidence?” He asked directly.

 

“Mycroft and I had taken this decision jointly…..”

 

“Please, we won’t talk about Mycroft. He and I get along well and I respect him for who he is, but this isn’t about him. He was not my house mate, friend, colleague and partner in solving crimes. He was not someone whose life I saved, whose life I feared for, whose life I was a part of. He isn’t my friend or the man I grieved for, for two long years Sherlock. Two years. I had to go for therapy, medications, counseling, I nearly drowned……”

 

“I didn’t foresee all of these things.”

 

“You thought I would just move on?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can you?”

 

Sherlock blinked, “You’re hale and hearty. You are soon going to be a married man, if Mary has accepted your proposal, that is. What….or who do I move on from?”

 

“Would it make any difference to you if we don’t handle cases together?”

 

Again Sherlock blinked, “But why? That doesn’t need to change.”

 

This time John sat down on the bed, “Listen, sometimes your thoughts and ideas are just like a child’s. Things have changed Sherlock and so have we, as men. I live with Mary now, I have committed myself to a large extent to private practice as a physician and to a couple of established hospitals and clinics. I have even completed my course and training as a general surgeon. My hours at work are long and my commitments at home are multiple.”

 

“You came here to tell me _that_?” Sherlock shot back. He could not reconcile himself to John’s statements ( _seriously, how can he not drop everything and come running when I have a case to solve_ ) but he was so preoccupied with his thoughts on Jim that he didn’t really want to argue.

 

“I came here to tell you that I always considered you a friend, my best friend, someone special, someone I was and am always going to be fond of,” John spoke and his voice was tight, he addressed Sherlock but kept his back turned towards him, “Whatever you did, that deeply hurt me. I have no idea why you did so, but I am sure there must have been a reason. Whether or not I agree with those reasons, I have decided to make peace with them. I realized something recently, it was last night in fact when I was reading in bed and I thought…..life is too short for regrets, enmity, grudges, anger. I haven’t forgiven you but I am willing to give this a try. I want us to be able to…….”

 

Sherlock filtered out the next words. Like one would do to background noise while speaking of something important with someone in a crowded place. He slipped into his mind palace for a few moments and checked on Jim, whom he found in the master bedroom suite. Nope, not just the suite, the entire wing was his. Jim was in the basement, the terrace, the balconies, the windows, the parlors, the grounds, the bedroom suites, the reception rooms, everywhere. Jim was someone of importance. Why was he harboring grudges against him when, just as John just stated, life was too short and unpredictable?

 

“You agree Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock looked at him blankly, “Agree with what?”

“That we solve crimes together, remain friends, put the past behind us? I won’t live with you here but I shall always be a phone call away. But you have to include Mary in things, like….”

 

“I need to go out John,” Sherlock suddenly sprang out of bed, “I need to be somewhere.”

 

“Annoying as it is,” John observed, “I like this Sherlock better. You’re back to acting like a dick.” He watched Sherlock pull out stuff from his closet and try to match them. He frowned. Since when had Sherlock been picky about clothes? He liked expensive designer brands (John knew because he’d often shopped for him) and took time to set his curls right, but the whole ‘match this with that’ wasn’t his style. “So what’s your response to what I said?” He asked aloud.

 

Sherlock was almost at the door, eager to go for a shower. “What….” He said, not looking clued-in at all, “Yeah…..my answer is yes.”


	5. Genie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim finally meet
> 
> OR
> 
> Okay Genie go-go-go!

“Imbeciles, imbeciles and fools, idiots and imbeciles, morons, ASSHOLES,” Jim yelled, throwing things indiscriminately as the people who assisted him in the lab scuttled away from the room, afraid of his famous tantrums. Though they had lessened considerably over the months, Jim could still be a petulant, seething child who could throw his toys out of the pram anytime things didn’t go in his favor. No one wanted to be around him when such a tantrum happened.

 

“Fuck off, get out the whole lousy bunch of you!!!”

 

Jim wanted to be alone too. He was angry and upset, more than he remembered being over the past year and half, and he needed to take out that burning hot anger on someone….or something. Better something than someone because in his new avatar, he couldn’t afford to kill people or blow them up simply because he was having an episode. It took a lot of willpower for him to control those urges but he had mastered ‘impulse-control’ to quite some extent through his sheer efforts and determination. Still, that day he couldn’t stop himself as he picked up a knife from the toolkit and hurled it at the last man at the doorway. It missed the frightened fleeing man by an inch, the incoming man by half an inch, and got stuck bang in the middle of the door.

 

“You are upset,” Mycroft said as he took a deep breath and pulled out the knife.

 

“I wasn’t going to kill him,” Jim said confidently, “I was aiming for that spot.”

 

“I somehow don’t believe that,” Mycroft walked towards him.

 

“Like I care if you believe or not…..”

 

“James.”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“I meant…..I don’t believe you’re NOT upset. What is it that’s upsetting you so much? One sample destroyed? No, you have bounced back from bigger setbacks. Two months ago a terrorist escaped from our high-security holding cell and that was because we didn’t follow your suggestions. I knew you were angry at me and several others for not taking you seriously enough but even then I didn’t see this kind of rage. So, tell me, what’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” Jim folded his arms over his chest.

 

“That body language and gesture suggest, ‘closed to dialogue or ideas’,” Mycroft observed.

 

“Then maybe I don’t want to share. I don’t _have to_ share all my thoughts with you.”

 

“No, you don’t have to…..but I was hoping you would be willing to.”

 

Jim turned away from Mycroft and said nothing.

 

“I don’t essentially like talking to your back but I won’t force you to open up either,” Mycroft went on, “This isn’t three years ago, when you turned yourself in and my men and I tried to break into your thoughts and intentions. Those six weeks, they were perhaps the most regrettable and folly-ridden time of my profession. But things have changed today and you know it as well as I do. I won’t persuade, force or obligate you to speak…..But I was thinking, hoping rather, that after living under the same roof for thirteen months there would be enough trust between us to discuss some issues.” He paused and reached out to touch Jim on the shoulder but something stopped him. He heaved out a breath and muttered ‘Take care James’ and walked out of the room.

 

“Damn it DAMN IT, fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!” Jim yelled out in frustration. He didn’t want to fight with Mycroft but he was pissed off. Why on earth was the elder Holmes trying to get close to him and the younger one trying to sneak away? He had hoped for the reverse, didn’t he?

 

He ran out of the lab, past a corridor, past some cabins and across a design center till he had come to the sprawling but well-guarded grounds of the MI6 R&D unit in suburban London. He collapsed behind an artificial hillock, under a stunted tree, and let out an anguished cry. Why am I so bothered about him? I wanted to get back at him for turning his back on me right after arriving at my doorstep, I stood him up, then why do I feel so wretched, so miserable?

 

“Jim.”

 

“Now I am hearing the virgin. My imagination is awry.”

 

“You had my nuumberrr. You could have caaalled.”

 

Jim froze. The same sing-song tone and use of words, a perfect imitation of how he had spoken when they had first met five years ago by the poolside. The same baritone voice! The same long shadow capped off by a headful of curly hairs!

 

_Sherlock was here!_

 

Sherlock had been looking for Jim for quite some time, without success. He knew the Irishman was somewhere on the premises but the damned premises were almost a square mile and hence too huge to do a quick sweep-through. He had no idea which wing Jim belonged to, which division he was assisting and who worked with him. Therefore, to make an intelligent deduction about his location was impossible.

 

Naturally he couldn’t believe his luck when he saw the man he sought run out of a side entrance and scamper across the landscaped gardens, the immaculately manicured lawns, up a hillock and past a koi-fish pond. He had followed closely, praying this was not an escape attempt from Jim Moriarty, because if it was so then Mycroft would commit him and never let Sherlock meet him again. In a few seconds his fears had been proved unfounded because Jim had simply skid down on the grass, held his head in his hands and let out a cry. He was surely not in the best of moods. Something was wrong.

 

Sherlock decided a playful approach was better and what better way than to reunite in the same manner they had first met, five years ago, when Jim had sung more than spoken, teased more than dueled and threatened more than actually hurt any of them. After clearing his throat he had put on his best ‘Jim Moriarty impersonation’. “You had my nuumberrr!” He had called out, “You could have caaalled.”

 

When Jim turned and looked at him, time came to a grinding halt for both geniuses. _At first Moriarty had been everything that Sherlock was afraid of._ From those dark foreboding eyes to that evil and scary smile to that malevolent and almost venomous presence, the diminutive Irishman had not done anything to endear himself to Sherlock. But with passage of time his aura had slipped, so had his pretend-play and Sherlock had got a chance to view the man behind the mask. Today the mask fell off completely and he saw Jim the man, simply the young brilliant man who had gone astray due to his naturally diabolical tendencies, mental illness and the influence of childhood, society and circumstances.

 

He was no longer afraid of the man, _he actually liked him_. This feeling of fondness was not new either, it had developed well and truly over time. He realized he had adored and admired his Irish counterpart for quite a while.

 

Jim found that he looked quite foolish standing there, tongue-tied, while Sherlock was trying to start a conversation. He was not going to let slip how badly he had waited for this moment nor was he going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him overjoyed at their reunion.

 

“How did you get in here?” He asked.

 

“You think it’s not allowed?” Sherlock answered a question with a question.

 

“Definitely not.”

 

“I managed.”

 

“Mycroft got you in?”

 

“Um……”

 

Jim grabbed him and Sherlock startled. His first instinct was to shrug off Jim’s arm and reach for his gun but Jim said something that put all his fears to rest. “You sneaked in, _you twit_ ,” the former mastermind looked around cautiously, “If you get caught we’ll both get into trouble.”

 

***

 

“Why are we sitting here, in a storeroom behind the galley?” Sherlock asked.

 

“No one will look for us here and, besides that, ‘m’hungry,” Jim munched on the cookies he had picked up on the way from one of the chef’s cooking stations, “Now don’t pretend you didn’t want this coffee either.” He pointed at the Iced Latte Sherlock was sipping.

 

Sherlock knew the coffee had injected some life back into him otherwise he was about to fall asleep on his feet. Three consecutive restless nights had drained him, he had managed to sleep as less as two hours per night, and that had taken a toll on him. “This is good, thanks,” he said and pointed at the huge variety of cheeses kept on a shelf and asked, “Can you reach out and grab one of those? One small piece should do.” Jim initially nodded and reached out but, the moment his fingers touched the cheese, something kept on top of the stacked cheese-blocks rolled over and fell on the floor. It was a jar of raspberry-flavored bread-spread and it broke into two halves. The entire contents of it spilled all over the floor along with a few small shards of broken glass.

 

“Fuck,” Sherlock gasped.

 

“Double fuck,” Jim said, “Someone is coming to check.”

 

“What-What now?”

 

“Why don’t _you_ think of something?”

 

“Me? _I am not the one who works here_.”

 

“I don’t work _in the galley_ , excuse me.”

 

The door handle moved. Jim grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and tugged, “Here, behind these barrels of vinegar, cider and spices.”

 

They barely had five seconds to hide but due to their ‘unusual’ professions, both were used to reacting quickly and getting things done in a jiffy. They managed to get out of sight with one minute to spare. But there was just one problem. The space behind the barrels was too little for two grown men to fit in side by side. So they resorted to the only alternative available. Sherlock settled down there and Jim sat astride his lap, his arms around Sherlock’s neck and his face pressed into the taller man’s chest.

 

“What the hell…..” a woman exclaimed, “What’s going on in here?”

 

A male voice answered from outside, “I always keep telling you to feed the interns properly Beatrice but you ever listen to me. You’d rather feed Pimento than those kids who work for us. We are British intelligence, _not some Barista or cook_ , so why can’t we act as such?”

 

“We cook for the MI5 and MI6 teams, _we are not British intelligence_ so stop flattering yourself,” the woman, whose name was Beatrice, answered with a dollop of sarcasm, “And I know you hate my Pimento. So what if he is a spider, he is my pet and the best spider-pet in the world.”

 

“He is the _only_ spider-pet in the world because not many are crazy as you are…….” Whatever else the man wanted to say was drowned out by the sounds of thumps as several slabs of cheese fell from the shelves and landed on the floorboards. Jim’s eyes widened when he saw what had happened. Sherlock had been trying to eat the cheese while sitting in his hiding place, choosing a precarious method of extending his neck and not moving a single other muscle, and naturally that had to backfire. While he got the small piece of eatable between his lips, he had successfully managed to dislodge all the cheese slabs and another jar of marmalade from their place. The jar didn’t break but it rolled right under a row of shelves and landed inches away from Beatrice’s feet.

 

“Upshhh….shawry,” Sherlock said through a full mouth.

 

“You had to do that?”

 

“Hnnnn?” A gulping sound came.

 

Jim rolled his eyes, “You had such a huge craving for cheese??? Now look what you’ve done. That witch is coming here.”

 

Sherlock licked his lips, “I don’t work here. The max they can do is kick me out. Don’t worry, I have been kicked out at least twenty odd times from here so I’ll manage. You should think about yourself.”

 

 _Fantastic! Just because he is used to getting kicked out doesn’t mean I like to be kicked out as well. ‘Now’ he tells me I should look after myself._ Gnashing his teeth together he came up with an innovative, on-the-spot-plan to escape. It wasn’t the best he had made but certainly one of the easiest. Worth a try! “Okay, just do as I tell you and do NOT speak a word,” he ordered Sherlock, “I repeat, do not speak ONE SINGLE WORD. I’ll use my superior intelligence to confuse this woman and fool the man outside.”

 

“Kay.”

 

“Just stand up, quick, just like this, with me in your arms.”

 

Sherlock did as he was asked. He stood to his full height with Jim clinging to him like a monkey, arms draped around his neck and legs wrapped around his waist. The intimate position made him harden instantly and he took a few deep breaths so Jim wouldn’t be able to feel the rapidly building erection in his pants. Moments later the woman, someone in her forties with faming red wavy hair, a broad-boned and stout build, with narrow and small bright green eyes appeared at the end of the aisle. The moment her eyes fell on the two men she screeched, “Joaquin, Joaquin……come over here and look, the interns have started having sex in our store room, yeah!”

 

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to snap at the woman but Jim dug his heel into the taller man’s tailbone and stopped him. Moments later a short, bald man with Latino looks joined Beatrice in the store room, just as shocked to see them as Beatrice herself was.

 

Jim suddenly spoke in a voice that startled Sherlock. _Deeper, balanced, authoritative_ , there was not a hint of the sing-song or childish or melodic quality that he was famous for. For a second he thought someone else was speaking and Jim was merely lip syncing. “What do you mean, interns?” He thundered, still on Sherlock’s lap and clinging to him, “I am a senior scientist and project leader, I am part of the chief’s SWAT team. Do you know how upset Mycroft Holmes would be if he got to know his scientist and subject have been misbehaved with? Do you have any idea we are both here as part of an experiment being conducted for a teleporter? It’s a machine that is in the testing phases!! It can let you go in and out of any solid structure, at your will and wish.”

 

“Ohhhh,” Joaquin seemed overtly excited, “A teleporter! Finally!”

 

Beatrice still seemed surprised, “Wait, wait, I don’t understand. Now, why would you teleport yourselves into a store room? This place stays empty most of the time and it could have been ages before someone heard you and let you out.”

 

“Don’t be a fool,” Joaquin said, “They would simply teleport themselves back into their office or lab space.”

 

“Um no……” Jim said, “We haven’t figured that out yet.” He looked at Sherlock, “Come one Genie, let’s walk out of here. Careful, don’t let me down or else we might land up in that suspended space between two destinations. Okay Genie, go-go-go!”

 

Sherlock scowled but obeyed nonetheless. He quickly carried Jim past the two bewildered kitchen staff and they slipped into the kitchen garden behind the café and mess hall for the non-officer category employees. Once there, Jim jumped off Sherlock’s lap, cheeks a flaming red. “Yeah…..thanks…..for trusting me in there and letting me do the talking,” he cleared his throat, “You better leave quickly now. I know a side door for exit……”

 

“Seriously,” Sherlock said, “Genie?”

 

“So then what should I have called you? Iago? Now get on your bike Sherlock, leave before your brother finds out what we have been up to.”


	6. The Lunch Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, we might have dropped in a bit too early.”

Sherlock stared at Jim as if the smaller man had sprouted an additional head. “What?” Jim asked. He then looked down at the ground, “Put me down first.”

 

“I didn’t come here to hide in a pantry, steal a cube of cheese and then sneak out of a side door,” Sherlock said determinedly, “I had come here to talk to you.”

 

He stubbornly refused to set Jim’s feet on the floor and Jim, after giving him some nonverbal clues, decided to answer Sherlock’s question first. “It’s been a week since you came back Sherly and we could have easily met in much better places than this. We could have chosen a spot where we had loads of privacy and time and certainly no cheese or raspberry jam bottles. But did you do that? Nope. You used lame excuses to delay things and then opted out at the last moment on the very day you had committed to dinner. You literally bolted from the doorstep and washed your hands off with a mere sorry.”

 

“Um…… you did the same thing to me.”

 

“I did that in response, not as a perpetrator. Now, because of some reasons know best to you, you have decided to make a dramatic re-entry into my life and that too in a restricted area. Well, I am not going to get into trouble because of your eccentric decisions and whimsical fancies. If you want to talk to me, you need to come home and talk. Not while I am at work, not while there are dozens of people around us.”

 

Sherlock looked on at him, amused.

 

“What are you gawking at?” Jim asked, frowning. He readjusted his grip around Sherlock’s neck, “Doing the whole Sherlock thing on me? Deductions and conclusions about what’s going on in my head, huh?”

 

“The right side of your face! Jim, that side of your face suggests that you wanted to see me so badly that you were actually happy that I broke some rules. It also says you really wish to meet me again, soon. Now guess what the left side of your face suggests?”

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock snickered, “It says you wish to meet me this very evening, or night.”

 

Jim blushed deeply and Sherlock got his answer. Of course he had merely teased Jim with the words but he was pleasantly surprised to find out that Jim actually felt somewhat similarly. The former mastermind snorted at him, “Hmmmff. Liar.”

 

“The truth.”

 

“LIAR.”

 

“TRUTH-TRUTH-TRUTH!!!”

 

Jim had always been used to having his way, being playful and wicked, being forceful and stubborn, all those things that made him Jim Moriarty. He had mostly got away with them too since people were too much in awe of him or afraid of him to react or revolt. But Sherlock had turned the tables on him and to see the normally serious and solemn sleuth act in a frivolous, persuasive manner was something completely new and surprising for him. He liked to be surprised but this had caught him on the wrong foot. “Fine,” he gave in, though he had originally planned to keep Sherlock waiting for a week more before setting up their next ‘failed’ date, “Tomorrow at Chutney Cheng. Lunch. We can have lunch there. It offers Pan Asian and Indian food.”

 

“Done,” Sherlock grinned in that beastly manner, showing all teeth but not really offering a real smile, “I like Indian food.”

 

“I like Japanese and Thai,” Jim scoffed, “Now put me down.”

 

“Just one more thing.”

 

“What now?”

 

“Why did you really climb on my lap and ask me to carry you out. To teleport someone or something, you don’t need one person to carry the other person or object. Not that a teleporter has really been invented but I know the theoretical concept of it, so I was…….”

 

“I am scared of spiders,” Jim replied, looking awkward, “Did you not hear what that Beatrice woman and that fellow, Jackson….no, Joaquin, were saying? She has a pet spider named Pimento and I didn’t want that eight-legged creature to have crawled up my socks, pants, on to my spine or around my crotch, waltzing about happily……aaaack…..owww…….how dare you?”

 

Sherlock had dropped him unceremoniously on his butt, right on a lettuce patch and was scampering about with frog-like reactions. He was taking off his coat and shirt and trying to reach all over his back and shoulder blades. “Spi-Spi-Spider,” he mumbled “….I hate spiders, I just fucking hate those creepy crawlies…..look at my spine, back of my neck…..is there a real spider…..spider anywhere?”

 

Jim got up, rubbing his butt and half-scowling, half-snickering, and tossed a handful of loose earth on Sherlock’s broad back. He watched lustfully as the brown earth splattered on the milky expanse of the smooth skin and suppressed a desire to lick it clean.

 

Sherlock jumped at the feel of the earth and asked, “What did you do that for?”

 

“Just scared off Mr. Pimento.”

 

***

 

Jim woke up with a start, feet tangled in the bedclothes, pillow on the floor. He had slept in quite an active manner the previous night because even a glass of water had been upset all over the nightstand.

 

“Shit,” he looked at his cell phone with concern. The new iPhone X was lying in the middle of the water he had spilled and he quickly checked it for any malfunctioning or water-related damages. Luckily there were none and a relieved Jim had almost curled back in bed and gone back to sleep when the hour and minute hands of the bedside clock beckoned out to him. It was 6 am and still dark outside, quiet except for the faint ambient noise of birds chirping and the even fainter sounds of traffic coming from the main road that was at least half a block away. In a flash the former mastermind was out of the bed and throwing the drapes open, excited to the core and mumbling, “I had almost forgotten! How silly of me! Today is my lunch date with Sherlylocks.”

 

He finished his morning routine, took a shower, then laid out his clothes on the bed. He had initially chosen something completely formal, a double breasted dove grey suit with a cream colored shirt and silver tie. After a second look he didn’t like what he had chosen and selected something else. This time he chose completely casual, designer denims and an ice-blue shirt with a Chinese collar. But even that didn’t make the cut. Then he chose something else, then something else. Finally, after much deliberation, he decided on a spring-summer suit in olive green with a mint green shirt inside, no tie and trendy shoes without socks, displaying that hint of bare ankles as he walked. He quickly made a trip downstairs for some tea and biscuits and nearly knocked into Mycroft.

 

“Whoa,” Mycroft looked at him, “The robe is half open.”

 

“Ooops,” Jim tied the sash.

 

“I’ve been hearing you in the room for some time. All okay?”

 

“Yeah, yes, all well. I am getting ready.”

 

“Early work schedule?”

 

“No, in fact I have a day off today,” Jim said with more than a hint of impatience as he started to lope down the staircase, “I have given Sherlock…..I mean Sherlock and I have set up a time today, to meet and have lunch at a Pan Asian and Indian restaurant. That’s all.”

 

“So?” Mycroft asked, confused, “Where are you going, _now_?”

 

Jim paused and gave him a rather flustered look. “What do you mean where am I going now?” He snapped mildly, “I am going to wake Eileen and ask her to make some tea for me and get me a couple of biscuits too. I am getting ready for the day, I don’t want to be late for lunch.”

 

Mycroft’s brows shot up to his hairline (and his hairline was way up his forehead)! He opened his mouth to say something to Jim but refrained at the last moment as Jim went on to speak about traffic, unforeseen delays due to other factors, etc. After a momentary pause the elder Holmes sibling turned and walked back to his room, mumbling, “I have a dinner appointment with London’s mayor and commissioner of police. I think even I should start getting ready now, so I am on time for it.”

 

Jim frowned hard at the comment and as soon as Mycroft had shut the door he called out loudly, “Hey, you lost your mind or what? Get ready for a dinner appointment? Now? You can be very funny Mikey, you know that!” Shaking his head and muttering about how _weird_ Mycroft’s statement was, Jim flounced down the stairwell. He was well and truly unaware of how comical the observation sounded, _especially because it_ was _coming from him_ , and headed straight for the kitchen. It was barely 6:40 am, naturally the galley and cook-room were empty. A flustered Jim went through the connecting doors to the staff quarters, startling Eileen who was just brushing her teeth.

 

“Tea and biscuits,” he demanded, hurrying her up by handing her a towel kept on the rack, “Milk tea flavored with cardamom and oatmeal cookies, quick!”

 

“Oh-kay.”

 

“Thanks! I am getting late for lunch.”

 

“Heh?” Eileen stood, brows knotted together, toothbrush still sticking out of the corner of her mouth, “Late for LUNCH???”

 

***

 

Jim parked his Porsche 911 four-seater Carrera Cabriolet outside the Chutney Cheng restaurant, frowning when he saw that the front shutter was half pulled down and the inside was dark as the belly of a whale. There was nobody on that street aside from an odd jogger or that rare car passing by. The shops and eateries were also mostly closed, aside from a small breakfast joint that had just opened in one corner and a milk-booth on the other corner. A couple of people stood in front of each. The clock said it was 7-15 am.

 

“Helloooo,” Jim bent down to peer inside, “Anyone there? Why are you not open yet?”

 

Tardy people! If he was not so fond of the sushi, the fried tempuras, the amazing Thai salads and chicken curries there, he would have never suggested this place to Sherlock. “Hello, anyone around?” He tried again. After a few knuckle raps on the door and some yells, a young Chinese man in his early twenties came out. He looked sleepy, hassled and slightly flustered. When he saw Jim standing there immaculately dressed and impatient to go in, he quickly called out to someone else in Mandarin. In no time an older man, possibly Malay, joined the first fellow, yawning and stretching his arms. “Do you know what time it is sir?” He asked, “Thank God we live in the basement here or nobody would have answered.”

 

“How could you not have answered,” Jim asked in pure disbelief, “I have a reservation here. I had booked a table for two for lunch today.”

 

For a second he thought he had shown the two men a live fire-breathing dragon with a dumpling in its mouth and chopsticks in its claws, they both stared in such shock at him. The Chinese youth looked flabbergasted and shook his head, he muttered something under his breath in his native tongue. The older Malay man seemed amused more than anything. He almost chuckled before he converted that into a cough, “If you don’t mind me asking good sir, is it a date? And if it’s a date is it with a young man about six feet tall, dark brown thick curly hairs, light green and blue eyes and a longish face with prominent cheekbones? Answers to the name Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, yes, yes, how did you know?” Jim was excited. Did this man also know deductive reasoning???

 

“Because that same man arrived here fifteen minutes ago, demanding we open the restaurant. He too seems to have a lunch appointment, with a dark haired, dark eyed, cute Irish guy with a sexy accent. He is the reason why half the shutter is open and one light is on in the first floor.”

 

“Whaaaat?”

 

“Yes. Please, do go and join him upstairs, first door to the right.”

 

“Okay, thanks, bring the menu up soon!”

 

The young Chinese asked his older colleague, “We should have asked them to come back at ten-thirty, when this place is open for customers. Our cook doesn’t even arrive till nine and the cleaning staff will not be here for another hour or so. Why did you let them in?”

 

“They seem like crazy people,” the Malay man’s eyes twinkled, “Right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“That’s what people in love seem like.”

 

***

 

Sherlock stood up the moment Jim walked into the first floor area of the restaurant. “Hey.”

 

“Hiiiii,” Jim had decided he’d maintain a very cool, unruffled front but he failed miserably.

 

The two of them shook hands and Jim, just like that moment on Barts rooftop when he had realized just how brilliant and bold Sherlock was, raised his arms a bit as if he was going to hug him. His shining orbs scanned Sherlock from top to toe, a feeling of pride settling in on him as he thought of the enormous risks the Englishman had taken to dismantle his web. He had, of course, abandoned that web by then and, without him challenging Sherlock, it would have taken half the effort, still, it was a very commendable job the other man had done.

 

Sherlock was also looking at Jim with a considerable amount of adoration and awe. How did this little Irish boffin manage to achieve so much? From public enemy no. 1 to a pardoned, redeemed ex-criminal-turned-scientist and mathematician, a favorite of Mycroft’s and an integral member of British intelligence and scientific research! All this despite that nasty accident?! Most people never recovered from brain injuries but Jim was not only healthy and fully-functional, he was unbroken in spirit, looks and charm. The same boyish and pretty smile, the same overall hotness and sensuality…..the same attraction, the same desire to reach out and touch those cheeks, those lips of his……

 

Jim controlled his urges to hug Sherlock and lowered his arms just as Sherlock raised his to embrace the Irishman. The comical moment made them smirk and they closed the distance ‘together’ this time, Sherlock wrapping his arms around Jim and Jim putting his arms around Sherlock’s neck. Their height difference somehow added to the romanticism of the moment and they found themselves looking at each other’s lips lustily. That was when they heard a voice close by. “Excuse me, sirs, monsieur’s, signors, herr……”

 

“Yeah, we get it,” Sherlock said dryly, “You speak several languages. What do you want?”

 

The Chinese waiter was disgruntled. “Asking you same thing. What do you want….to eat?”

 

“I asked them to bring the menu,” Jim said.

 

“Oh, ok,” Sherlock let go of Jim, regretting the move immediately because his arms felt ‘empty’, “What can you get us? Say, in twenty to thirty minutes can you get some something nice to eat? I don’t see a breakfast menu here, only lunch and dinner.”

 

“That’s because we only serve dinner and lunch,” the waiter answered, “But if you so wish, give me some cash and I can get you something from the café down the street. They make a mean set of pancakes, which they serve with maple syrup and butter.”

 

“Get two portions,” Jim said and handed him some cash, “Sherly, these restaurants don’t open before ten, I guess.”

 

Sherlock looked equally embarrassed, “Yeah, we might have dropped in a bit too early.”


	7. The good doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel full…..I mean, in a good way.”

“You’re absolutely fine Mrs. Hudson,” John concluded after seeing her reports, “Blood pressure is a bit low so don’t forget to eat and take these medicines for a month. Then stop them. Don’t keep taking them for longer or they’d cease to be effective in future. Nothing to worry about.”

 

“Thanks John,” Mrs. Hudson said, “You’re a surgeon now and yet you paid a house visit to check on me. I am grateful. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I do miss your tea, a lot,” John admitted, putting away his things inside the stylish leather attaché case, “Never thought I’d miss it so much whilst I was living here and getting a cup each in the morning and evening.” She beamed with joy and he watched her hurry to the kitchen to brew some tea, commenting about some new brand she had recently tried and found to eb awesome. He walked to the entrance door of the old lady’s flat and, almost by habit, peered out of into the foyer and up the stairs. He couldn’t hear anyone up there, in fact over the past fifteen minutes he had heard not even a sound. Had Sherlock gone out or was he still asleep? It was nine-thirty in the morning and Sherlock was a night-owl, so he could still be in bed.

 

“John if you’re thinking about paying a quick visit upstairs then don’t,” Mrs. Hudson called out from the kitchen, “Um…..would you like some homemade chocolate cake with the tea?”

 

“Nope, watching my weight,” John said distractedly, setting one foot outside the door, “Just some tea, that’s all.”

 

“Oh John.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“He isn’t in. He left at the crack of dawn.”

 

John felt a weird stir in his heart which pinched at a raw nerve in his brain and spine. Sherlock has a case and he’s not even texted me or asked me if I would like to join him? This, in spite of his earlier attempt to bury the hatchet and decide on a way forward. Was Sherlock just being Sherlock or was he purposefully avoiding John, thinking he was in a relationship now and had lost the zest? _Fool, if he had only asked, even Mary is ready to cooperate if solving cases means so much to me. If only he had asked!_

 

“Tea.”

 

John jumped, “Oh….yes, of course, thank you.”

 

She gave him a knowing smile but said nothing. They settled down on armchairs next to each other and sipped the fragrant brew, John pausing only to appreciate the fine flavor of the leaves and Mrs. Hudson asking how many surgeries he usually did in a week. Polite questions and politer answers, none of them willing to discuss the white elephant standing in a corner of the room and conspicuous in its presence.

 

Finally, when it was time to leave, John couldn’t really hold it back anymore. “He has changed since his return,” he commented as he went to the kitchen to wash his cup, “Hasn’t he? Have you noted some of the changes?”

 

Mrs. Hudson gave him a fond but _‘I know it, right?_ ’ look. “This is called the other triangle, what we can call a ‘relationship triangle’. I warned Sherlock the moment he had returned and dropped in to tell me ‘Hey, I’m alive again Hudders’ that you have a partner now and as such things would change between the two of you. He looked apprehensive but said nothing, he dismissed me in his usual brusque manner but I could see the ‘dubiousness’ in his eyes which caused that brusqueness. When two people are great friends, constant companions and literally live and work together, it’s very hard for one of them if the other falls for someone….in love, I mean. It’s like losing something you had between the two of you.”

 

“He hasn’t lost me,” John reacted, “Far from it.”

 

“He hasn’t lost you,” Mrs. Hudson said calmly, “That’s not what I said. I said he has lost that special bond that existed between you.”

 

“I fail to see how this is my fault,” John gesticulated at his own chest, eyes wide and brows knotted in a frown, “My fiancée is very considerate, she likes Sherlock and would let me work cases with him anytime it’s needed. I assured him of that too. If there was a special bond between us, who struck the first blow? He did. Do you remember the weeks after he had…..we thought he had passed? I couldn’t get up from bed. All that pain, grieving, sense of utter loss, what right did he have to inflict that upon me and then assume I would simply grin and welcome him back the moment he dropped back in? If that bond is lost, I have lost it too, haven’t I?”

 

“Calm down doc,” Mrs. Hudson said, “First of all, no one said it’s your fault. It’s the situation. Yes, you have lost the bond too but you have someone else to fill up that gaping hole. Mary. She is there. As for why Sherlock lied to us, I think he did that to pull off the stunt convincingly.”

 

“What rubbish.”

 

“No, it’s not. See, by not letting us know the truth he protected us. Even if someone kept an eye on us they would see two grieving people, not two people who are pretending to grieve. Believe me, these things can be easily caught and the eyes trained on us are dangerous ones.”

 

“Agree,” John felt a tingle in his brain, it was starting to make some sense now.

 

“He should not begrudge you Mary, just as you shouldn’t begrudge him his life and the way he wishes to lead it now.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I begrudge him nothing. I am just worried that…..I can’t go through the whole ‘I lost my Sherlock’ grief all over again. This time I won’t survive it. At the end of the day, surgeon and soldier I am but I am also a human being. I have my weaknesses.”

 

“As does he,” she said kindly, “As does he. Accept them and accept him with those weaknesses. Let’s just say, you two, all of us, we are flawsome!”

 

***

 

It was nearly 3 pm and close to ‘closing hours for lunch’. The restaurant was, by then, teeming with diners and staff. On the first floor, one corner table groaned under the weight of empty plates, cups, saucers, sauce bottles, glasses, bottles, cutlery. Jim and Sherlock were half lying on the chairs like beached whales or boa constrictors who had just had their meals. The waiters had by then warmed up to them and ensured they were not disturbed too often. They dropped in once every hour to check if there was a new order they’d like to place, but other than that they left the two ‘unusual’ blokes alone. The seating hostesses giggled with each other as they passed by that table and ogled the two good-looking men, despairing over how all the handsome men were gay.

 

“Tony, Xi, Rodney, Abdul, Mukesh,” the restaurant owner, a British man with a Singaporean mother and Welsh father, exclaimed the moment he laid his eyes on the two men at the table, “Their bill is on the house. Do not charge them.”

 

The Malay man, Tony, was the most astonished. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he heard the words of his employer. “But boss, they have run up an extremely high bill,” he argued, showing him the long list of items that had been ordered, “From here, as well as from the restaurants and cafes around us because they’ve been sitting here since 7 am. Eight hours sir, seven orders placed, they owe us and the cafes around us nearly seven hundred and sixty pounds. If it was the usual average bill of hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds we could have just let it go, but not this, please.”

 

The employer shook his head, “No. I’ll absorb this blow. I know both. One is Sherlock Holmes…”

 

“The great detective?” One of the waitresses asked excitedly.

 

“Precisely. It’s an honor to have him here.”

 

“What about the other one?” Mukesh asked him curiously, “Seems familiar.”

 

“Oh, he is an old friend of mine. He should not be paying at my establishment either.”

 

The restaurateur didn’t explicitly mention anything but he knew the other man was James Moriarty. Thanks to the successful assignment Moriarty had completed four years ago (one which he had hired him for), he owned his restaurant today and was a millionaire in his own right. Otherwise his stepfather would have usurped this once his mother had passed and he would have been reduced to a mere cashier or waiter here.

 

“Thanks Jim,” he whispered to himself, “ _For fixing it for me_.”

 

***

 

By the time Jim had driven them to 221B it was around four in the afternoon and Sherlock was merrily snoring in the passenger’s seat. Jim parked the car and waited, sneakily recording a short video of Sherlock napping with his mouth slightly open and snorting and snoring at regular intervals, his head lolling towards his chest. Then he just sat there looking at his companion. _What are you doing Jim? These things do not happen in real life. He is no fairy tale prince and life is no fairy tale. He probably just lusts for you. He hated you once, he could hate you again. You turned legit for a reason, follow that reason and keep your arse safe. Don’t let him weaken you to a point of disadvantage._

 

“Sherlock,” he gently nudged the man awake.

 

“Huhhh!” Sherlock awoke and sat up a bit too fast, got pulled back by the seatbelt and fell back against the seat. His face had a momentary comical expression and he first looked sheepishly at Jim and then at good old familiar Baker Street around them. “Ohhh, we are here already,” he said, stretching his long arms within the car and then his equally long legs. He lingered for a few moments in the car though he was not sure why he did so! _Wasn’t I expecting something here, what was I expecting anyways, now I don’t remember!_ When he couldn’t quite identify his own needs it began to seem odd to just keep sitting there. “Guess I better go,” he whispered and opened the door.

 

“Sherly, wait.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“No, nothing.” _Jim, tell him, ask him, say you wanna meet him again soon, better still make the plan right away._

 

“Okay.”

 

“I’ll call you.”

 

“I’ll…..answer the call, um…..” _Numbskull, idiot, fool, what are you saying, what do you even mean by this._

 

“I shall…..” Jim cleared his throat, “Thanks for today. Strange they didn’t let us pay a single penny for what we ate.”

 

“And we ate enough for a week,” Sherlock was happy the subject of conversation had moved to something else, “I feel full…..I mean, in a good way.” He bit down on his tongue the moment he said those words. They dripped of sexual connotations and his face reddened.

 

Jim grinned, imagining Sherlock blush all over as he lay naked in bed. “Yeah, I get what you mean. All right, see you then.”

 

***

 

“They were there till 3-30 PM and ordered a variety of dishes from sandwiches to noodles to naan and curried lentils to desserts and cocktails and at least seven cups of tea each,” Anthea read out the surveillance report, “They were seated on opposite sides of the table at first but soon moved to sit on the same side. But no pawing and clawing or footsie happened, that has been confirmed. They ran up a bill of seven hundred pounds and more but the owner of the restaurant, Brain Lee Jones, instructed his staff not to charge that table saying he had recognized them, one as the great detective Holmes and the other as an old pal of his. Then Jim dropped Sherlock at 221B and……”

 

“Brian Lee Jones was definitely a client of Jim’s,” Mycroft deduced, “His cruel and cunning stepfather died ‘accidentally’ four years ago. That man was trying to deprive him of his rights over the restaurant.”

 

“Boss, I wanted to ask you something,” Anthea said after a few moments of deliberation, “I have always known you as a man of principle but not so bookish and righteous that you won’t take a calculated risk or make some ethical deviations here and there when the situation demands it. You can never be faulted for the way you plan things, execute things, advise us on things. I am very curious about your reasons behind getting your brother and Jim together. I somehow don’t think Sherlock can be pinned down, nor can Jim be trusted completely. They’re the same people who……”

 

“Sociopaths, psychopaths even, one more, one less,” Mycroft said, “I know.”

 

“Then?”

 

“They will ground each other. In a way they always loved each other Anthea, they gave an impression of hatred and rivalry but hate and love are but both sides of the same coin and rivalry with respect is healthy. I am merely feeding their fancies and waiting and watching.”

 

“If it works out, what happens?”

 

“Imagine Sherlock and James working for us. We will be invincible.”

 

“And if it does not?”

 

Here Mycroft was quiet. The plan B he had in mind was not to be shared with anyone, not even his superiors or the Queen, not even with this woman who had rightfully earned his faith and trust over the past ten years. If Sherlock and Jim fell out, he would step in and position himself between the two. He would remain Sherlock’s big brother, confidante and protector and to Jim he could be a possible…..husband?

 

“We shall cross the bridge when we come to it,” he said to his assistant and second in command, putting a lid on the conversation, “Okay, get me the files on that minister. Is he still courting that Russian belly dancer?”

 

***

 

“I can’t close the last gap,” Jim complained, sprawled out on the bed with the phone on speaker and kept right next to his face, “The idiots your brother assigned to me botched up the first sample, now if the second sample is also destroyed I can’t honor the commitment I had given to Mikey. The calculations are all correct, I have checked them again and again, yet the damned prototype is returning error percentages that are way too high to be used even in some testing environment. I have to reduce the error percentile to less than 5% to consider it as a first draft of the product.”

 

“Now the error percentage is 23%. I agree, way too high.”

 

Sherlock rolled over to lie on his front on the couch, looking fondly at the phone and the small profile picture of Jim at the top right hand corner. 1 hour 31 minutes 50-51-52 seconds tick tick tick tick! “I have a case. I am not sure about the exact reason behind the crime and could use some help. On the other hand it seems you could use some help to create that draft/prototype. How about we sort of help each other, work together, that way we can have more face time together…….um, sorry, I mean, it would be nice to stay in touch but only if you feel the same way too.”

 

“I do. I might even surprise you with a visit.”

 

“You would???”

 

“Pronto!”

 

The line went dead and Sherlock did a small ‘yipee’ and sat up on the couch, playing ‘catch’ with the phone and giggling. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and only then he realized he had locked it so no one would walk in on his conversation with Jim. “Bastard,” he said with a big goofy grin, “He was outside all along. That’s why he said he could surprise me!!!”

 

“I knew it was you……..” Sherlock opened the door but his smile faded, as did his words. It wasn’t the Irishman he was expecting. His friend John Watson was standing there.


	8. John's visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a long chat about the reappearance of Moriarty in their lives. Jim as usual 'breaks' into the flat.

“Morning Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock looked so clueless and blank that John raised his brows, “Do I look like a ghost?”

 

“No, not at all, by all means you look like only one person, _John Hamish Watson_ ,” Sherlock said cheekily as he walked back to his chair and sank down on it. He began steepling his fingers under his chin to give himself the usual ‘thinker’ look, one which gave him the license to not talk too much and pretend to be deep inside his mind palace. If he stayed in that position John would say little and observe little, perhaps leave soon and not ask questions. He could go and meet his doctor buddy later, in John’s private chambers perhaps, or drop in at his new home in Islington Avenue. Mary had texted him and called him over for dinner _any day he wanted_ so the invite to John’s new abode already existed!

 

But no such luck of his best friend leaving quickly without asking anything. John seemed to be in no hurry to leave as he stepped inside the room, looking around as if he was searching for something. After a moment’s observation he looked crossly at Sherlock and asked, “Where is my chair? Where is my coffee mug and teacup? Why is the skull not on the mantelpiece but on the side table next to you? I also heard from Mrs. Hudson that you’re converting my former bedroom into a lab?”

 

“Yes to all.”

 

“WHY?”

 

“You don’t live here so……”

 

“……So you want to remove everything that was associated with me???”

 

“So there is no need to keep a setup that suited you. You are welcome here anytime but if you sit on this chair instead of the one you preferred…..what are you doing???”

 

John purposefully thumped his feet hard on the floor as he went to the kitchen and grabbed his ‘old chair’. “What the fuck does it look like?” He snarled, annoyed and snappy, “I am getting ‘my chair’ back into the sitting room. No, I WON’T sit on that chair, that’s meant for the clients.”

 

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

 

“Any new case?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Of course there was a new case. But he had promised Jim they would work on it together. He could, of course, lie to Jim and say the case was off or he could tell John there was no case, but the big question was _who was he willing to lie to? John or Jim?_

 

“Actually none of them.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Sherlock realized he had just spoken his thoughts out aloud and avoided eye contact with John. He chose the safest route to take, silence. Putting on his best snooty expression, he pretended to be speaking from his mind palace, deep into his mind and not aware of his surroundings or the world. He closed his eyes for full effect and heard John curse, then get up from the chair. He heard thumps of footsteps on floorboards, furniture being pulled or pushed, the scare of table legs on marble and wood, the rattling sound of the drapes being drawn aside. He discreetly looked at John from the corner of his eye and saw his friend was putting everything back to where they used to be whilst they were housemates.

 

“That’s it,” John said, “The house is back in shape.”

 

“Hmmmm.”

 

“So, do we have a case?”

 

“John I am out of milk.”

 

The earlier John would have argued with him that it was not only his job to get the milk but this John seemed unusually eager to please. “I’ll get it for you, right away,” he said, “Be back in half hour. Anything else you need? Hang on, I’ll check the fridge before I go.”

 

***

 

John had scarcely left the building when Sherlock felt a ‘presence’ in the flat. A grin broke through his face and he rushed to the bedroom where he was met with the exquisite sight of Jim lounging on his bed with a Cheshire cat like grin on his face.

 

“Window or door?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Does it matter how I got in?” Jim said in his sing-song voice and removed his jacket, “Door, window, rabbit-hole, keyhole, I am here aren’t I? I did tell you a long time ago that I have tried out your bed several times and it seems surprisingly comfortable, soft and warm. The pillow smells of you and the duvet smells of……” He paused and turned up his nose, “You don’t wash these things or what you dirty boy?”

 

Sherlock colored, “I might have had a few wanks in bed.”

 

“Wank?” Jim began to laugh, “You said that word?”

 

“Yes, there you have it Mr. Moriarty,” Sherlock said proudly, “I am not quite the same virgin you thought I was.”

 

Jim broke out into peals of laughter. “Really? Just because you used the word ‘wank’? Wanking is not a way to pop your cherry, you know that, right?”

 

Sherlock colored even more severely, wishing he had a better grip over these things. Why couldn’t he be more like Mycroft? Someone who was astute, wise, smart and perceptive and at the same time very well versed with matters related to sex and romance, intimacy and relationships. Though elder brother Holmes had never had a proper romance or a real relationship (he had definitely faked a few in his earlier days in MI6), he knew all the ins and outs of such things. He was not a virgin, nor repressed, nor coy in terms of using some words and gestures. “Hello,” Jim waved his hand in front of Sherlock’s face, “Stop comparing yourself to your brother. Truth be told, _even he is a bit of a prude_.”

 

“H-How?”

 

“I read minds.”

 

“Bullshit. You just presented a _wild guess_.”

 

“Oh….”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Are you a mind reader too Sherlylocks because _it was a_ wild guess.”

 

Sherlock forgot all about John and quickly kicked off his slippers and got into bed. Jim immediately cuddled into his arms and they lay like that for a while, blissfully, silently, no words needed at all. Sherlock had funny thoughts in his head. What if he went to Dublin with Jim? He wanted to see which house the Irishman had grown up in, the places he used to frequent, meet the remaining members of his family…..if there were any left at all.

 

“Sherly?”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“I have my brain scan and MRI tomorrow.”

 

Sherlock missed a heartbeat, followed by a sinking feeling in his gut. “Are-are you not well?”

 

“I am fine. Normal, routine, annual check.”

 

Sherlock was relieved. “Good practice, especially after an injury that sent you into a coma.”

 

“I-I know that and I do want to go…..but I really don’t wanna go alone. Mikey went with me last year but he’s busy tomorrow so…..”

 

“So then the solution is simple. Mycroft’s younger brother will accompany you instead.”

 

Sherlock deliberately took his brother’s full name and not the nickname that Jim so annoyingly used from time to time. But that little flare of annoyance he felt was replaced by a sense of alarm when he suddenly heard the flat door open and that familiar voice of John, calling him out to check on the groceries. Jim was tense within seconds and looked at Sherlock with the sort of glare that could easily freeze a man into a waking ‘coma’. It was a vicious, angry, fierce look. “Um….he was here for a visit and then went out to buy milk,” the detective explained hesitantly, “And then…ehm, he even offered to buy groceries,” Sherlock scratched his head and started to gnaw at his fingernails, “I didn’t know he’d be back so soon.”

 

“Go,” Jim said unexpectedly.

 

“You-You okay with that?”

 

“Well, what choice do I have? He won’t disappear, would he? Finish it with him and send him away quickly.”

 

“Um…..okay.”

 

“SHERLOCK? Are you in the bathroom?”

 

John’s insisting tone and impatient shouting made Jim scowl and he looked so much like the suit-clad Jim by the poolside, one who had draped John in a Semtex vest, that Sherlock quickly scuttled out to sort matters out. If he understood John’s relationship with Mary, John would also have to understand his relationship with Jim. _No-no, not relationship, just friendship! Not really friendship but…..well, we just talk._

 

“I’ll be right back,” he said and gently stroked Jim’s cheek. The smaller man closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Sherlock startled. That simple gesture from Jim had sparked a fire in his brain and a corresponding one in his loins. He was getting…..hard. “I’ve to go now,” he said distractedly as he still held on to Jim, delaying the parting as much as he could.

 

He had clearly delayed it too much because the bedroom door opened and in walked his former housemate. “Sherlock! Are you in here……???”

 

Sherlock’s worst fears came true as John walked right into the bedroom and stopped, his mouth open like a bewildered frog’s. His normally debonair looks were totally marred by the wide eyes, dropped jaw and the scowl that was slowly forming on his visage.

 

“Hello Johnny boy,” Jim didn’t make things easier either with his taunting and sarcasm, “Or should I call you a Johnny pet now? I heard you have managed to finally find a girl who doesn’t mind your long track-record of hanging out with loose women and gold diggers.”

 

Sherlock felt like a husband torn between his wife and mother. “Jim please….” He said before turning towards John, “John, let me come out of the room and talk to you.”

 

He tried to grab John’s elbow and lead him out of the bedroom but the good doctor resisted. While he was shocked to see Jim, he seemed more shocked that Sherlock was so much at ease with Jim’s presence. “Are you going to allow him to just insult me like this, huh?” John was shaking with rage but at the same time fully aware of the threat that presented itself in the shape of Moriarty, “You-You knew he was there, that he was alive and not dead, he’s here in this flat which means you guys have been in touch…..and yet, this is how I find out?! What else have you kept from me Sherlock? What else have you not told me? Please tell me upfront because I don’t like these unpleasant discoveries.”

 

“I was going to.”

 

“Bollocks.”

 

Jim giggled, “How cute!”

 

John glared daggers at him and then turned towards Sherlock again. “He is in your bed, you were right next to him. Is there a ring involved as well?”

 

“Can we PLEASE go outside and discuss this like two adults?” Sherlock finally allowed himself an outburst, “This exchange of complaints and taunts isn’t going to help any of us so shut up, _both of you_. Jim, please, just give me a chance to talk to John. Jawn, I can explain everything but must we do it like this, standing here, in this room? Can we not sit down on our usual chairs in the living room and have a proper conversation?”

 

John wordlessly left the room and Sherlock reached out and gave Jim’s wrist a squeeze to soften the blow of his last words. “Go! Pet can’t wait for too long, it goes crazy and starts chasing its tail,” Jim snickered. But Sherlock saw a hint of insecurity in those deep, dark eyes.

 

He wondered why.

 

***

 

“So that was why every belonging, every possession and every sign of my presence here was moved out of sight and position!” John was clearly hell-bent on putting two and two together and coming to some conclusions of his own. His tone was bitter and accusatory.

 

“Jim isn’t responsible for those things,” Sherlock defended Jim, “This is his first visit since we….”

 

John looked so disappointed that Sherlock was reminded of Mycroft’s expressions in those days when he was a kid. When he took extra seconds to come up with an answer, Mycroft would make a face like that. Fortunately, John didn’t use the caustic words Mycroft used. His next words were surprisingly mature, restrained. “His first visit since Barts rooftop. Sherlock, he tried to kill you, blackmailed you, defamed you. And now he is in your bed…..what am I missing?”

 

“What you are missing is……” Sherlock stopped, then added, “Human beings do change.”

 

John took a deep breath and sat down on ‘his chair’, looking entirely unconvinced. “Fine,” he said, “I won’t judge until you tell me everything and I have all the facts on the table. Tell me how this happened and how your biggest nemesis turned up alive and right there, on your bed.” Sherlock cleared his throat and sat on his chair, hoping he used the right words this time. While he was working on cases he spoke articulately, to the point and with conviction, when it came to other conversations, ‘non-case’ conversations, he was not so efficient or appreciated. Usually he ended up making more faux pas and Freudian slips than inarguable points, annoying people and making enemies.

 

“I’ll try,” he said, “But don’t interrupt and don’t make frog expressions.”

 

John was about to say something but held himself back at the last moment. “Fine. Go on then.”

 

Sherlock took half an hour and explained everything to John, surprising himself with the way he sketched out details, gave reasons, provided options he had to choose from and even spoke about the deep connection he had always felt for Jim, a feeling he had kept dormant and suppressed while they were enemies but couldn’t hold them back any longer when they rift healed and Moriarty turned legit.

 

By the end, John was on his third glass of water. “Okay,” he said, “I have three questions for you. Do you really believe he has changed?”

 

“Yes. I am sure. My gut says so and my brain supports it. Mycroft has testified to that as well.”

 

“Good. Collaborating with him will make you happy, successful, fulfilled?”

 

“Definitely. He and I are very similar. We can make this work.”

 

“Does he also feel the same or is he with you because he’s lonely? What’s he angling for?”

 

Sherlock hesitated. “I like the fact that you’re showing some hesitation,” John said, standing up, “Because you really cannot answer _on his behalf_. And you can’t be sure of what he thinks until you have spent more time together. I’m going now Sherlock, I won’t stop you from leading your life the way you wish to, however, I am going to leave you with one thought. Don’t trust anyone until you have watched their actions, not just their words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been 6 weeks since I posted an update on this one. I normally never put such long gaps between updates but I got caught up with the Sherlock story and work played foul. Will be more regular with this series from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> The story diverges from the point of the Barts Rooftop incident and goes into AU (from the Sherlock BBC TV series plotline). This is a tale of two geniuses and how they come to terms with their feelings and how they discover that they too could behave like ordinary people....for example, falling in love. 
> 
> Ad Astra Per Aspera - Through hardships to the stars


End file.
